


Ruin Me

by Feathers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Time, Greaser!lock, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Slash, Sometimes Sherlock is just stupid.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 06:48:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/619259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feathers/pseuds/Feathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Sherlock wonders why John puts up with him. Sometimes John wonders the same thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ruin Me

**Author's Note:**

> (First chapter is pretty PG besides the violence. Does this even count as violence? Whatever. Next chapter is going to be the actual boompowsurprise.)
> 
> For LovelyNobody00

Duck to dodge their jab- sidestep away from pocketknife- punch to the kidney and he’s winded. A slip of paper into the criminals’ pocket. Yes, this is going decidedly well for Sherlock. Following the facts, he found himself having some fisticuffs with a rather innovative arsonist that was making money for hired jobs that would earn his clientele a hefty reward in insurance. Though the man – standing one hundred and eighty centimetres tall with a medium build and an alcohol dependency based on the redness of his nose and cheeks and faint smell of bourbon – was a member of a rival gang. Not that Sherlock was in a gang, but he did have plenty of rivals.  
  
This gang had been notorious for what they would do for cash, which was just about everything excusing sexual favours. And they weren’t very fond of Sherlock, as he had taken out a great many of their members.  
  
Normally, Sherlock would have let Lestrade take care of someone like this, but the sleuth found himself decidedly stumbling upon the next target in the late afternoon, and the man very well just wouldn’t take a cease and desist.  
  
A disarming swipe and then once more fake left- then knee in abdomen. Shirt was tattered, spattered with blood. That’s going to stain. Open hand hit to the jaw and he should be momentarily incapacitated. Break for air.  
  
Turning a slight degree, Sherlock saw a amber hued liquid seeping through the doormats, curling around the tiles in the floor and he definitely felt his heart pick up the pace for a moment when his sight met a sparking open wire circuit near the conveyer belt just nearby. Time to make this quick, but Sherlock apparently underestimated the man’s recovery period when he was caught off guard by being tackled to the ground.  
  
The man mounted Holmes’ midsection and this situation didn’t look very good. One hit, to the cheek bone, and Sherlock’s face was knocked to the side where he saw a can of yams and reached for it, only managing to grasp it after two more punches – to the nose and eye. Quickly, he bashed the arsonist over the head with the can of yams and scrambled out from under him.  
  
A fire sparked and the liquid lit quickly, covering half of the isles within seconds. Deciding that their lives were more important than going out in a blaze of fire, Sherlock ran, can in hand, and followed after the criminal out of the exit.  
  
Repaying the favour, the ‘consulting detective’ ran straight into the fire-starter, bringing them to the ground and gave him another good knock with the can, enough to knock him unconscious. Sherlock took a moment to correct himself, standing with aching limbs and a sore face on the side walk outside the shop and lit himself a cigarette.  
  
Inhaling deeply, he hugged his leather jacket close turning the collar up, but winced once the sleeves squeezed on his bruises.  
  
The sound of sirens in the distance signaled his departure towards the back alley ways. Dealing with the authorities wasn’t his strong point; especially with a – thankfully empty – shop on fire.  
  
Climbing the stairs, Sherlock heard John yell from the lounge “It’s about time you showed up,” clearly annoyed. “I leave to fetch the milk and come back to an empty apartment and a worried Mrs. Hudson.” Holmes was only half paying attention while reaching for another cigarette whilst dragging off his jacket. “She was worried you’d run into another gang and-” John was about to rant when the detective figured he had turned his head from reading the paper and noticed the bruises. As the jacket slipped off, only more were revealed.  
  
“Jesus, Sherlock what did you get yourself into this time,” the doctor said, more bothered than worried as he stood and stepped towards Sherlock.  
  
“The arsonist,” the taller man retorted and before he could stop his flatmate, his face was cradled by two calloused hands, blue eyes examining his injuries thoroughly. Sherlock felt something happen in his midsection, but stamped it down immediately.  
  
This had been happening more often than not now, and Sherlock truly didn’t understand why. Yes, he liked John, and cared for him – needed him around so he didn’t go insane. But this was beginning to get ridiculous. John wasn’t as stupid as the rest of the idiots Sherlock spent his time around. He was actually smart. Clever. And damned useful. But John was no longer an assistant. He was a friend. But Sherlock was thinking of him as less of a friend each day, and more like something else, and his brilliant mind didn’t know what to do with that. Feelings were not something Sherlock Holmes had.  
  
Knowing John cared about him, too, was a comfort, but was it in the same way?  
  
He tried to read into John’s eyes, but he was never good at deciphering feelings a person had. How troublesome.  
  
“Christ, he nearly bludgeoned your face in,” John tutted, taking his hands back to grab the first aid kit from the bathroom. Sherlock’s face felt cold. “Sit,” John requested, patting the back of the couch, and Sherlock listened. “What even happened?” There was an arch in John’s eyebrow that Sherlock recognized the man did when he was interested in something. He was slowly breaking the code that was John Watson.  
  
So Sherlock complied. He told John, words pouring quickly from his lips as they always did, and the man listened to every single one of them. Holmes liked it when he listened, and liked it even more with comments like “Fascinating” and “Amazing”.  
  
Sherlock told him he tested the burns and found they were made of a nearly untraceable chemical mixture, unless you knew what to look for. John gently took Sherlock’s t-shirt off and winced at the bruises. Sherlock told him of how he found an empty bottle of Bell’s whiskey down the street from one of the crime scenes, and then another and another. John cleaned up each wound carefully, commenting as he did. Sherlock told him of how he remembered running into the gang before, and one of the members who had mugged him nights ago drank the same before breaking it on Sherlock’s head. John cleaned out the scrapes on his arms with rubbing alcohol and Sherlock only hissed once.  
  
All very boring and easy, he thought, but Sherlock watched John’s face all the while, and the detective thought he looked interested. John didn’t notice the staring because he was busy taking care of him. Then Sherlock told John of how he had followed the greaser for quite some time, waiting to catch him in the act. John wrapped bandages around the wounds after applying ointment. Sherlock then told John, in full detail, about the fight, and John smiled. Sherlock liked it when John smiled.  
  
“You’re such a prat,” John laughed, and Sherlock smiled. “I could have helped.”  
  
Pursing his lips in such a way, Sherlock picked up his white shirt, tsking at the blood stains and put out his cigarette in the ashtray. He’s running out of shirts. “Boring case. Didn’t want to bother you,” he said plainly. The doctor shrugged, shaking his head and walked into his own room. “Though the arsonist did mention a name.” Something soft hit the back of his head and he grabbed at it, finding a black shirt in his hands. It smelled like John, and a part of Sherlock liked that very, very much.  
  
“Hides the stains better,” John explained, returning only to go into the kitchen as the taller man carefully put the shirt on. “Might be a tight fit on your shoulders, but it’ll do. Tea and a sandwich?”  
  
“Not hungry,” Sherlock replied. There was a light sigh from the kitchen.  
  
When Sherlock was in his chair, harmonica playing quietly a tune he had been working on when John returned, with a dish and mug in hand. He placed the dish with a sandwich in Sherlock’s lap and the tea balanced in his hand. “Eat. Drink,” he demanded, returning to the kitchen to grab his own. “You’re skinny as it is.”

After eating just half of the sandwich and sipping at the tea, there was a knock at the door. Lestrade entered before either of them reacted and gave Sherlock a look he had grown so used to.  
  
“I’m sure you deserved it,” the inspector spat, walking up to them, noticing the bandages and bruises. There was a muffled chuckle from John’s direction as Sherlock just grinned sardonically at Lestrade.  
  
“Got my note?” Sherlock said, taking another sip from his tea.  
  
“Note?” John asked, only to have a piece of paper land on his lap. It read ‘Your arsonist’ written out in scratchy letters.  
  
“You’re supposed to be a consultant, not some vigilante,” Lestrade said, waving his hands about as he does. “The paperwork to cover your footsteps is-” but let the sentence drop. He was an odd man, in Sherlock’s mind, but he disliked him less than most.  
  
“I was consulting your arsonist,” he drawled, his smirk still in place as he fiddled with his harmonica. The inspector just gave a tired sigh, fingers running through his hair as he stared at his feet. Looking at Sherlock again, he straightened himself with a huff. “You’re going to get yourself killed.” John gave Sherlock a look that could mean that he agreed. “Seriously, Sherlock. I don’t need you running into fists with every case. Leave that to us. You already get your arse handed to you by these thugs every other week, anyway.” Continuing to remain silent, Sherlock just pursed his lips, and blew a few notes in his harmonica.  
  
“You’re damn lucky we need you,” he said before turning back to the door, gazing back at them. “Do stop muckin’ about. And you,” he grunted, staring squarely at John. “Keep him in check,” nodding at the man’s insane flatmate. “And couldn’t you have tried to save the shop?” Sherlock shrugged and Lestrade shook his head, leaving with a hefty door slam.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?” John asked in a slightly higher pitch as the accused man was draped over him, peering over his shoulder as John wrote in his journal. He was warm and had strong shoulders, and the detective could feel the man’s pulse quicken against his chin.  
  
“Reading what you’re writing,” he said matter-of-factly, as if that weren’t obvious. Testing how John responded to Sherlock’s affectionate physical contact was left unsaid.  
  
“I can see that, but-” Squirming a tad, but not necessarily pulling away, the short man tilted his head to try to catch a glimpse of Holmes’ face. “But do you have to be this close?”  
  
“I’m injured, you’re supporting me,” he lied, trying as he could to keep his eyes on the paper. “And your handwriting is atrocious.” John just sighed and continued writing a previous case they had been on together.

“Sherlock!” The word rang in the odd man’s ear as he reached past a very naked John for the razor on the shower shelf as he stood outside the bath, leaning around the curtain. John sometimes shaved in the shower, but hadn’t yet. Good. Sherlock wanted to see what he looked like with a bit of scruff, not to mention how he would react to being seen naked by his friend. Watson didn’t even bother to cover himself as Sherlock hesitated, examining him for a moment. That warm feeling in his stomach was returning again, and sinking lower. When his eyes met John’s again he just answered, “I need to shave,” before abruptly leaving the shower.

Experiments over, Sherlock had confirmed that he was indeed attracted to his flatmate. What an inconvenience. But the purpose was to see if Doctor John Watson was attracted to him, and that was left hanging in the air. Sherlock didn’t want this to be a scientific query. Not anymore. He had become biased. He wanted John to like him as much as he liked John. And Sherlock could only think of one way of finally answering that.

“Could you dress my wounds?” Sherlock asked, looking particularly tired and aching. He was still covered in bruises from the fight yesterday, so it added to the effect, and the man never asked for anything. John was just puttering around the apartment in his underpants and t-shirt. Sherlock was also wearing another one of John’s shirts, excusing it for the fact that he had yet to buy any new ones of his own.  
  
Without grief or hesitation, John nodded and grabbed the first aid kit before standing before Sherlock.  
  
“Lestrade was right,” John said, carefully removing the bandages. Sherlock arched a questioning eyebrow, enjoying the warmth radiating off of his friend. “You’re going to get yourself killed one day. You need to be more careful.”  
  
The man remained silent, watching as the doctor shuffled around him, taking care of him as he always did. The detective didn’t necessarily want to be taken care of, but he rather enjoyed it. That said, he would also prefer if he reciprocated the same feelings for John. To care for him; protect him. Because no one ever cared for Sherlock this much.  
  
“John,” Sherlock interrupted mid rewrap of his bandages.  
  
“Sherlock?” he responded. Not what. Nothing sounding annoyed. Sherlock sometimes wondered how John ever put up with him on a daily basis, but he think he knew now.  
  
With the lack of response from the other man, Watson looked up to him and surely met dilated eyes and a slightly open mouth. Sherlock could feel his pulse racing from what he was about to do. He didn’t want to ruin this friendship, but he needed more. He needed to reciprocate.  
  
And John was so short, Sherlock had to cup his face in his hands and feel the warmth of him. When the good man didn’t pull away immediately, Holmes bent forward slightly and brought his lips to Watson’s. This was it. His first kiss. He was calculating everything down to the millisecond, every movement precise. There was a second of recognition, a second of response, kissing him back and it was wonderful. No tongue. Not yet. Not while John’s hands were coming up and pressing against his arms, pushing him away, and with it, breaking Sherlock’s resolve.  
  
He froze hands in the air as John broke away, a look of anger on his face. He knows, because that’s the face he makes when Sherlock does something, or says something wrong, immoral, or just all around mean. It last occurred when Sherlock was attempting to shut up a chatty cashier and ended up making her cry. John stopped him. Kept him in line. That was three weeks, one day, ten hours, and sixteen minutes ago. Sherlock tried all he could to not see that face.  
  
Cold encompassed his body, but much stronger this time. His heart was still racing, but for a different reason. “What the hell are you doing?” John Watson spat, and the words struck him in a way he wasn’t prepared for.  
  
“I was-” The consulting detective cut himself off. Sherlock Holmes, speechless. He was never speechless.  
“No, Sherlock. You can’t do this. Putting me in this position?” Anger brought a rosy tint to the man’s face. Sherlock tried not to like it. Arms dropped to his sides, all he could do know was keep breathing.  
  
“It’s not okay to just- just kiss your flatmate! Your friend!” John was yelling now. Sherlock really didn’t like that. “Without any- It’s not right!”  
  
The words were echoing in his mind, and his thoughts were reeling, searching for the logic behind it.  
  
“Is that what you’ve been doing?” John demanded, beginning to use gestures, pacing a few steps each way. “All this time? With the touching, and showing up at inappropriate moments, and scaring my girlfriends off?” He had never looked this disgruntled. This was rage, wasn’t it. “You can’t toy with people, Sherlock.” Frown lines, furrowed brow, red eyes. This was sad, yes? Now John looked sad. That was the last thing Sherlock wanted to do. Ever since he came back he from the-… He didn’t want to do that to John again. “Not like this.”  
  
It was in that very moment that the great detective got a clue. “Toy with you?”  
  
“Oh, don’t be so daft. You know what I mean.” The outrage was back, if only for a moment.  
  
“I’m not toying with you, John,” he said, trying to keep a cold face. Show no emotion. That’s how you convince a person when you’re serious. Right.  
  
John stormed up to Sherlock, fist raised, and for a good moment, Sherlock was convinced he was going to be hit square in the other eye. But he backed off at the last second, head tilted down, his face in his hands. “You are. This isn’t…” He wouldn’t turn to face him. “This isn’t some experiment.” The word hung there for a moment, and it actually took a second – actually two point three and a quarter seconds – for Sherlock to realize what John was saying.  
  
He walked up behind the other man, sure to keep a distance, just in case there were any more flying fists. “This isn’t an experiment,” Sherlock finally said. His tongue felt heavy. The mask was gone.  
  
There was a moment of silence.  
  
And then another.  
  
By the third, Sherlock was worried he was just making it worse by remaining silent, and nearly opened his mouth to talk again when John spoke up. “You’re lying,” he said, but it didn’t sound convinced, like even John could hear the lie.  
  
“I’m not,” the highly functioning sociopath finally admitted.  
  
John finally turned around and was almost shocked at Sherlock’s closeness. The taller man stood still, just in case. Because his friend still looked sad. Like he’d been near crying. But it was John’s turn. The ball was in his court. That’s what people said. Or something. A large part of him hoped for a smile. Or something. A small, dark part of him wished John would walk away – saying that he would only end up hurting the doctor again.  
  
But he was more than a doctor. So much more. With his dusty blonde hair and baggy t-shirts to go with jeans that were too long for him. The slight wrinkles he gets in the corner of his eyes when he smiles. The way he licks his lips when he’s frustrated. The fact that he needs the adrenaline rush, too. The heart that’s too big. And the loyalty that would be the death of him. So much trust that should not be put in Sherlock’s hands.  
  
“You take care of me. And I want to take care of you.” Then the rage was back. John was taking Sherlock’s shirt – John’s shirt – in clenched hands and slamming him up against the wall, and the pain shook through his body, putting him in a daze.  
  
“That’s what this is?” he boomed. When Sherlock blinked to focus on the shorter man, he saw that John’s eyes were beginning to water. This is the complete opposite of what Sherlock wanted. “You owe me a favour?” he said, voice much lower and darker. Sherlock could feel something break in him, and if it wasn’t his bones, it was something else. And it was uncomfortable. He didn’t like it. It was like a sliver of gravity, pressing hard against the back of his throat and head.  
  
“That’s not it at all, you twit,” Sherlock said. Voice shaking. Breaking. This was bad. “I’m doing this because I want to. Because if I don’t, it feels as though…” His words drifted off, and he watched them go, eyes fluttering as they danced into the dust of the sunlight. “That’s it.”  
  
John did a double take, caught slightly off guard. “What’s it?” he said, tightening his grip just a bit more, bringing Sherlock’s eyes to his again.  
  
“You make me feel,” Sherlock said. Watching John, it was like talking to a brick wall. He didn’t understand. “I don’t like emotions. I don’t have emotions. They clutter the mind and distract people from thinking clearly. That’s why I push them away. With everyone. I get close to no one, and it’s safe. Alone protects me. And then some imbecile comes into the lab, looking for a place to stay, and we get a flat. I was safe until that moment. But you, you idiot, completely ruin me.” And there it was. He had finally said it aloud. And was odd. Odd because it felt natural, and he was used to feeling like a machine.  
  
John’s face fell as he was computing everything that was just thrown in his face, staring past Sherlock’s shoulder as if the wall had the answers. He slowly began letting go of Sherlock, but wasn’t backing away.  
  
And then John Watson kissed him. Wholly and entirely kissed him back, lips mashing together and calloused fingers reaching back to card in Sherlock’s hair, tugging slightly. He let his hand frame John’s face again, holding him close. This felt distinctly better than the first attempt, Sherlock decided.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for my shite writing abilities.


End file.
